


oh, the weather outside is frightful

by kirargent



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 22:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3092585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirargent/pseuds/kirargent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An hour passes and Kira isn't nearly as drunk as Malia, but she's drunk enough to have endured a thorough mocking of her purple flowery bedspread, an also thorough mocking of her extracurricular fencing, and a prolonged tickling-based attack, and still glance at Malia, sprawled on her back on Kira's bed chomping on beef jerky, and think <em>god, I want to kiss her</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, the weather outside is frightful

**Author's Note:**

  * For [priestlyboaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/priestlyboaz/gifts).



> for [wesvgibbins](http://wesvgibbins.tumblr.com) as part of the [teen wolf femslash exchange](http://teenwolffemslashexchange)! all your prompts were really fun to work with, thank you!

Kira had planned this day impeccably. She would rise at seven, take a shower, pack her things, and be on the road by eight. Because she planned to travel on Christmas, traffic would be nonexistent and her drive would go quickly, placing her arrival at her parents' house near eight at night. Since they celebrate Christmas only in the atheist sense, it works just as well to exchange gifts on the twenty-sixth, and this way she can avoid the holiday travel rush. It was a perfect plan. Well, or it  _would've_  been a perfect plan, had she not wrapped a thick red scarf around her neck and lugged her heavy duffel outside—into at least three feet of snow.

It takes her several seconds to begin processing the situation. They're not supposed to get snow like this—yeah, maybe they get a foot or two every year if they're lucky, but despite common perception of Washington as cold and snowy, there's really not that much snow. And certainly not without any predications from the weather channel. And certainly not on  _Christmas day_. Seriously, how often do people actually get the white Christmas they've been dreaming of?

It's the cold that finally snaps her brain back into function-mode; a quick breeze cuts across her face, stinging her cheeks before numbing them. Her shoulders slump; she sniffs heartily, nose running with the cold. For another moment she stands rooted outside the front door, cold seeping through her sneakers. The campus has emptied in the past week; the snow coating the grounds is unblemished by footsteps; the road, just visible from here, is free of cars but layered in snow. Mouth settling into a frown, Kira turns and stomps back inside, hauling her duffel bag back up three flights of stairs.

After learning that a snow plow won't likely get to the campus for another few hours and that the snow is still coming down on the highway, her new plan is to dump her luggage, raid the stash of pricy alcohol under Lydia's bed, and find cheesy Christmas movies to watch on her computer. The drive is too long for it to be reasonable to get a late start today, so she'll just have to leave tomorrow.

She completes step one—dumping her luggage—and strikes out on her second mission: find some alcohol. The halls are empty; she doesn't pass a single soul on her expedition to the tidy second-floor dorm that belongs to Lydia. She slows her steps as she nears the room, glancing around for potential onlookers. The hall stays quiet. Kira crouches, pulling a bobby pin from her pocket. She grips the handle, turns it out of habit—and frowns when it gives under her hand before she's picked the lock. Lydia is out of town meeting her girlfriend's parents, and her roommate left for home last week: the door really shouldn't be unlocked. But there's no way Lydia Martin forgot to lock her door. What the hell's going on?

Brow furrowed, Kira straightens and eases the door open. She takes small steps inside, scanning the room.

The beds are made neatly, the bedside tables are undisturbed. Kira takes a step deeper into the room.

There's a girl kneeling beside Lydia's bed. Her back is to Kira; her dirty blond hair hangs down just past her shoulders.

Kira takes another step forward, her eyes wide, and the floor creaks under her foot. She freezes.

The girl whips around. There's something in her hand, but she tucks it behind her back before Kira can get a clear look.

“Malia?” Kira says. “What're you doing?”

Malia narrows her eyes. “Why is that your business?”

“Uhhh,” Kira says. Admitting she's here to borrow-slash-steal alcohol is maybe not the best game plan. “Well,” she hedges, “as Lydia's friend, when I encounter someone acting suspiciously in her dorm room while she's not here, it's my duty to investigate the situation.”

Malia settles back on her heels, raising her eyebrows. “In that case, what are  _you_  doing here?”

“Huh?”

“Well, as Lydia's friend, it's my duty to investigate suspicious behavior in her room, right? So what are you doing here?”

Kira hesitates. “What am _I_...doing here? I'm, uh.” Panic buzzes in her blood. She forces a smile. “I'm—well. See, Lydia forgot her, um. She forgot to pack the shoes she wanted to wear on New Years, so she asked me to mail them!” Kira nods, smiling as brightly as she can.

Malia gives her a look that suggests she thinks Kira might be a little out of her mind, but after a moment she shrugs. “All right then.” A slim smile turns her lips. “I'm just here stealing her vodka.”

Kira's lips part. “You...”

A smirk tugs up Malia's mouth.

“Oh,” Kira says. “That's... Okay then.”

Malia's smirk widens into a toothy grin; she pulls her hand from behind her back, and Kira makes out a bottle of clear liquid in her grip.

“Well,” Kira says, “I should—come back later. I'll let you... finish. What you're doing.”

Malia cocks an eyebrow. Kira smiles sheepishly and turns to go.

“What about Lydia's shoes?” Malia asks.

Kira doesn't turn. “What?”

“The shoes Lydia wanted mailed to her. Don't let me stop you from finding them.”

“Oh, that's—that's okay,” Kira says, turning around to offer Malia another nervous smile. “It's not urgent. I wouldn't want to interrupt.”

She turns again, but Malia keeps talking, amusement clear in her voice. “The shoes were a lie, right?”

Kira goes still. “What?”

Malia snorts. “Dude, come sit on the floor and get drunk with me. There's no shame here, I swear.”

“That's a nice offer,” Kira says, turning around again. She'll be spinning in circles soon. “But that's really not why I'm here.”

Malia shrugs again, her smile in place as she takes a drink straight from the vodka bottle. “Suit yourself.”

Kira makes it out the door, up the stairs, and all the way to the door of her room before she turns around. Malia Tate is hot, okay? And if Kira's ever gonna have a chance with her, it's probably now.

“Okay,” Kira says, back in Lydia's room with her heart beating in her throat, “you caught me. There aren't any shoes. But we're not getting drunk on the floor; that's way too depressing.”

Malia raises a lazy eyebrow. Kira holds out a hand.

“Come on. I've got two empty beds and some beef jerky in my room.”

A happy groan leaves Malia's lips; warmth tingles in Kira's chest. “I  _love_  beef jerky,” Malia declares, and, accepting Kira's hand up, she follows Kira back to her room, vodka clutched secure in her hand.

 

* * *

 

An hour passes and Kira isn't nearly as drunk as Malia, but she's drunk enough to have endured a thorough mocking of her purple flowery bedspread, an also thorough mocking of her extracurricular fencing, and a prolonged tickling-based attack, and still glance at Malia, sprawled on her back on Kira's bed chomping on beef jerky, and think  _god, I want to kiss her_.

“Hey,” Malia says through a mouth full of food, “we should go outside. Make a snowman or something.”

“Now?” Kira asks.

Malia flops onto her side, her head bent at an angle. “Yeah, why not?”

“I don't know,” Kira says. “Might be fun.”

“Cool,” Malia says, and then she's suddenly off the bed and bounding for the door. “Gotta grab a coat!” she calls, and then she's gone. Kira blinks.

They meet outside several minutes later, and seeing Malia bundled in a red winter coat over her sweatpants with the tip of her nose stained pink with cold honestly might be too much for Kira's poor little bisexual heart. Kira tugs her scarf tighter around her neck and launches a hastily formed snowball at the back of Malia's head, and a war ensues too vicious for longing thoughts to persist.

 

* * *

 

That snowman never does get built, although by the time they're back inside, Kira's pretty sure she's frozen enough to be deemed a snow-woman herself. Now discarded on the floor, her jeans are soaked through with snow, and thanks to a well-placed handful of slush on Malia's part, the back of her shirt is cold and wet as well. Kira got her back for that, at least.

She's extra proud of herself for her retaliation as soon as Malia steps back into her room from the hallway, dressed in one of Kira's sweaters and a pair of Kira's pajama pants. Her hair is wet, hanging in clumped strands. Her cheeks are pink and her smile is bright. There's something devastating about seeing her so damp and cozy in Kira's comfiest clothes, something that makes Kira's hands itch to hold her by the waist and tug her close. A swell of pleasure rises in her chest—Malia wouldn't be borrowing her clothes if she hadn't tackled her and scooped snow down her coat and down her pants—and it crests and subsides into a generally happy warmth as Malia plops down in a horribly adorable heap beside her on the bed.

“That was fun,” she states.

Kira nods. “I could've done without the snow down my back myself, but yeah.”

“Don't be a wuss. You didn't get nearly as wet as I did.”

“Are we really having this conversation?”

“Hell yes, we are! Are you kidding? I was  _drenched_ , and it's all your fault!”

The alcohol from earlier lending her unusual confidence, Kira lets a small smirk shape her mouth. “Are we still talking about the snow?”

For a second, Malia frowns. Kira watches her carefully. Abruptly, her face clears, shifts into surprise, then another emotion that she masks too quickly for Kira to identify.

“Shut up,” Malia tells her, and whacks her with her own pillow.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't occur to Kira until another hour and a half later after a fierce pillow fight and a viewing of Frosty the Snowman to ask: “Hey, your room is just downstairs. Why'd you need to borrow my clothes?”

“Hm?” Malia says, lounging on her stomach on Kira's bed. Kira's sitting beside her, legs draped perpendicularly over the backs of Malia's knees. Malia is warm.

“Why didn't you just get your own clothes?” Kira rephrases.

“Oh,” Malia says. She flicks through Amazon's Christmas instant movie selections on Kira's computer, tilting her head to the side. “Didn't feel like walking all the way down there, I guess.”

“Huh,” Kira says. She remembers Malia seeing through her lie about Lydia's shoes. Every minute that passes she's feeling less and less drunk, but somewhere she still finds the confidence to say “See, I'm thinking that's a lie.” Malia props herself on her elbows, twisting to look at Kira. Kira makes herself keep talking. “I think you just saw an excuse to wear my clothes,” she says.

Malia's eyebrows jump up. So does Kira's pulse. She has exactly zero indication that Malia is into her. Yeah, Malia hooks up carelessly and unashamedly with girls and boys and other, but that doesn't mean she's into  _Kira_. Why would Kira assume that? And why would she state her assumption  _out loud_?

Maybe someone will get her a muzzle for Christmas. That could come in handy for use around cute people; she's got a bit of a habit of sticking her foot in her mouth. She rambles, or she moves too quickly, or—

“Saw right through that, huh?”

Kira blinks.

Malia is smiling.

Kira blinks again. “What?” she says.

Malia rolls her eyes. “My room is literally thirty seconds away. There's not a single reason for me to wear your clothes except that I wanted to.” She wiggles out from under Kira's legs and sits up, grinning. “This is probably my most obvious come-on, like, ever. You're kind of oblivious, you know that?”

Kira can feel her cheeks getting warm, which is ridiculous, because she's not even the one making shameless excuses to wear someone else's clothes. “Oh,” she says, because she can't really think of anything else to say.

“Yeah,” Malia says, voice soft and laced with warmth. “So are you gonna kiss me, or what?”

Kira bites her lip, all her nerve-endings lighting up with thrilled elation. “You're drunk, though,” she says quietly, reluctantly.

Malia seems to deflate: her upright posture falls; her eyes lose a bit of their sparkle; a frown creases her forehead. The warm tension in the air between them doesn't dissipate, though. “Well, damn,” Malia says.

Kira laughs a little, feeling lightheaded. “Yeah.” She twists her hands together in her lap, glancing at the alarm clock next to her bed. It's still only the afternoon. “Okay, how about this? You get one kiss, we sleep off the vodka, and then we can make out tonight before I leave tomorrow morning.”

Malia considers. She gives a sharp nod. “Deal,” she says, and holds out her hand.

They shake on it.

Anxiety and excitement tumbling together through her stomach, Kira rises onto her knees and makes her way closer to Malia, her heart pumping fast as she settles just in front of Malia, knees pressed against her crossed legs. Malia grins at her, than closes her eyes expectantly. Kira pauses, startled that Malia is letting her take the lead. It's not what she would've expected—she and Malia aren't extremely close, but everything she's witnessed of Malia has been confident and commanding; Kira would've assumed she would grasp control of the situation as soon as Kira made her interest clear. Lifting hands trembling with nerves to cup Malia's jaw, Kira almost wishes that Malia had taken charge.

But then she leans in, drinking in the vision of Malia's dark lashes against her cheeks, her gently closed eyes, her parted, waiting lips, and the thrill when she closes the gap and presses their mouths together is only heightened by the adrenaline. Kira thinks her soul might fly out of her body. She's not even sure what she thinks that would feel like—she's only sure that Malia's lips are warm and gentle against hers, then more and more insistent, and she could be happy to do this for hours. They agreed on just one kiss, though. Disappointment sinks in Kira's stomach even as Malia's arms slink around her waist to tug her closer, fingers curling in Kira's t-shirt. Her breath runs short; her lungs start to burn. She opens her mouth and lets Malia kiss her harder, tongue tracing her lips, exploring her mouth in quick, soft licks.

Kira is the one to pull back, breathing hard. She stays close to Malia, keeps cradling her face. The tip of Malia's nose is brushed red from the contact with Kira; her lips are pinked from the kiss.

“We can't—you're drunk,” Kira says. It's not really a coherent statement, but Malia understands, frowning and leaning back a little more.

“Let's sleep fast, then.”

Kira smiles. There's no question of Malia going back to her own room; she just slithers under the blankets beside Kira, tangles their legs together, and grins.

“I wouldn't have had that vodka if I knew you'd insist on waiting.”

Kira rolls her eyes, though she can't help her smile. “Consent isn't valid if you're drunk.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malia grumbles. She pushes at Kira's shoulder until Kira gets the picture, rolling over to let Malia snuggle up behind her with an arm draped around her waist.

“Hey, Merry Christmas,” Malia says quietly.

Kira smiles, relaxing into the warmth of her bed and the girl behind her. “You too,” she whispers back.


End file.
